The tall man stood on my porch again, at three in the afternoon, and when I answered he handed me the second letter.
As off-put as I was by the first letter, I found that as I sat watching television that night, I couldn't shake the story from my head. I took the second letter and led its messenger to the kitchen table once again.
I wanted more.
What word does justice to the nature of the second letter?
Dark. Twisted. Desperate.
The yellow paper was rife with drawings of forlorn figures huddled in corners and tiny bodies splayed out in pools of pencil gray. Smudges of graphite made all the little doodles appear in shadows.
The second page of the letter was just one big drawing:
A woman's face twisted up in suffering, her mouth hanging open and her throat packed full of maggots. Spiders wrapped up in her hair. Tears whipping down from her eyes. Her hands grasped her own face, jagged nails dug into her cheeks.
That second letter gave a name to the demon- Se'irim.
Se'irim.
I glanced up often from the letter to the man sitting across the table from me. Did he know the terrible tale I was being told? Is that why it was so important that he was present when I read it?
His gentle smile never faltered, never faded as he looked idly around my kitchen.
YOU ARE READING
Letters to Heinz ✔
Short Story#102 Highest Ranking In Horror 3/21/2017 #219 Highest Ranking In Short Story 1/29/18 "He knocked very delicately for a man of his stature, hulking as he was at six foot four with wide shoulders and big, hairy knuckles. When I asked how I could help...
